Moog
by Foxieglove
Summary: Series of oneshot fics starring Pintel and Ragetti, known fondly as Moog. Warning: Some chapters contain slash. UPDATED: New chapters! Pintel avenges a cruel prank on Ragetti, has a chat with Elizabeth about fathers, and risks Calypso's terrible wrath.
1. Drowning

Pintel watched him, though he pretended not to as he scrubbed the mop across the deckboards. The moon was hidden away behind a bank of clouds, the only reason Pintel dared to look up at all.

Finally, tired of working alone while the idiot stood there with the mop just looking out at the water, he plunked the tool into the bucket and joined the younger man at the railing. "What is it?"

Ragetti's eye was on the water's surface, staring past it.

Pintel waited, but not very patiently.

"I was jus' thinkin'."

"You don't say."

"About drownin'."

". . ." Pintel looked at Ragetti, flatly. Talking about suicide wasn't like the lad at all. No matter what had happened.

"'Bout Bootstrap."

Oh for fuck's sake. Pintel kept his temper, knowing how that had affected Ragetti. "What about Bootstrap, mate?"

"I'm scared of drownin', you know that, right Pint?"

"Aye, and scared of heights too." That earned him a scowl. "And gettin' hit. And Barbossa. And striped socks. And women wit long fingernails. And monkeys. Anythin' else?" Ragetti was glowering at him. Pintel relented. "What's the purpose, lad? You ain't gonna die anytime soon."

"I ain't scared of dyin', Pint. I'm scared of drownin'. Dyin's what happens after drownin'. That's hows you escape it," Ragetti said heatedly. He went back to staring at the ocean, at a man they'd long since left behind, leagues deep. Pintel thought for a moment he saw a glimpse of sinking black hair in the water, and he pulled back shuddering.

"Don't do it to yourself, lad. Bootstrap asked for it. Think he'd be wonderin' about your welfare if you was the one strapped to that cannon?" Pintel spat, not liking to be spooked.

"Naw, I ain't feelin' guilty for him," Ragetti muttered defensively. "I'm think' o' what he's doin' down there in the deep."

"Drowning," Pintel growled, resuming his chores. He paused, and looked at Ragetti closely. "Oh."


	2. Silly

"Then Mercadio's sittin' there with his chest swelled up, all cause he prove hisself the best at five lousy matches o' arm wrestlin' --"

"He beat you too, Pint."

One meaningful glare later in the scrawny man's direction and Ragetti looked down quietly.

"As I was sayin', Mercadio lays it on all thick-like - and he's had a few pints too many I reckon, cause he wagers he can best anyone at anythin' since we're all such sore losers."

Elizabeth took another drink from her bottle, already smiling. This was certainly better company than Will, who was still sulking about something he wouldn't talk about.

"So before anyone else speaks up, ol' Ragetti pipes in with --" Here, Pintel made his voice quite feminine.

Ragetti stopped snickering and sat up straighter, furious. "Oi, I didn't say it like that!"

"Yes you did, you said those very words!" Pintel didn't like having his stories interrupted, especially at the best parts.

"I didn't say it in that high pitched tone what you just used!"

"You'll be speakin' in a high pitch all night iffen you don't bloody shut up!" he roared. Ragetti huffed, but shut his mouth again.

"So Ragetti says 'Can you lick yer elbow mate?' and Mercadio just stares at him, sayin' what a stupid challenge that is, right? Mercadio tries it anyway and course he can't and he looked like a right idiot trying. Two minutes go by with his tongue stickin' out and wagglin at his elbow before all of us just started out laughin' at him. Mercadio gets all nasty then, sayin' iffen' we're too scared to come up with a real challenge to put before him, to just say so."

Elizabeth was giggling just as hard as Ragetti, quite uncomfortably since her mouth was full of rum. She managed to swallow, barely. The taller man clapped her on the back, rubbing to help it down.

"Wait, wait, this is the best part," he told her.

"Then Rags, easy as you please, twists his arm so . . . Ragetti, show 'er, if you still can."

With a muffled popping of joints, Ragetti twisted his other arm sideways and licked his grimy elbow. For her benefit, he pretended to make a face at the taste of it. Poppet laughed out loud at that, leaning her head back against Ragetti's arm, presently the only thing keeping her chair from tilting her onto the floor.

Pintel's whooping laughter joined their own and he thumped the table - "You dog, you can still do it can't ya? Mercadio tried again for a whole mother-lovin' ten minutes after that, and he musta been tryin' all the night long cause he had a sore neck come morning didn't he, Rags?"

Ragetti nodded, as red-faced as any of them from both rum and laughter and unable to speak.

For a moment or two at least, they'd forgotten what trouble they were all sailing toward.


	3. Guilt

Ragetti watches as Elizabeth unsteadily replaces the bottle onto the table, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The stories ran out some time ago, but the rum did not. Pintel has dozed off in his seat and the air down here is warm and thick.

He's been taking note lately, of how often the Poppet stares off into nothing when nobody's paying her attention. The whelp comes around every so often, to pester and ask questions it seems until she gets irritated and walks off - usually to find them. Will never follows her.

At least twice, Rags has asked Pintel why Turner doesn't do anything useful and as many times Pintel snapped at Rags to just leave it. It wasn't any of their business, was it?

She lifts the bottle again and this time Ragetti stops it from raising high enough to allow any liquid into her mouth. "Think you've had enough, Poppet," he ventures, carefully.

"How much does it take you to forget things?" she asks. An odd question. Ragetti does not understand and Elizabeth gestures, awkwardly. "You know. To forget. Like your eye, maybe? Or the people you've hurt or - or killed?"

Ragetti might not forgive her for that, but she's not trying to hurt him. A moment passes. "Who've you killed, Poppet?"

Elizabeth stares at nothing and takes a long drink. Ragetti doesn't stop her, hearing Pintel's warning in his mind.

Leave it be, Rags.

"Nobody," she says, in a voice that barely carries over Pintel's steady breathing. The bottle is set down again, this time on the floor. Ragetti nudges it out of reach with his toe. Elizabeth does not appear to notice and puts her head down on the table, forehead against Ragetti's arm. Her face feels too hot against his skin and he doesn't care much for that.

Leave it be.

Slowly, he strokes her hair as if she were a dog. She doesn't protest. Ragetti resigns himself to the fact he won't be getting his arm back tonight and listens to the silence instead.


	4. Magic

If there was anything Ragetti hated, it was a pirate who thought he was a magician. A man couldn't drop his prosthetic in peace around here without some fool snatching it up and playing some kind of twisted game.

"Now you see it," Giorgio taunted, waving his fingers in front of Ragetti's face, "Now you don't!" And through some sleight of hand miracle, the eye was gone. Ragetti made a keening sound.

"Just give it back!"

"I can't," Giorgio said, looking innocent. "It's simply vanished!" Ragetti waited, pursing his lips in vexation. In a moment Giorgio would probably find it behind his ear. But Giorgio smirked and others were watching, laughing. Ragetti didn't like it.

"You give it here, or I'll --" he growled, trying to sound like Pintel. The man was up in the rigging today, and far from being able to help him out. If Ragetti wasn't so afraid of heights . . .

"Tell you what. If you can find it, it's yours." Giorgio spread his arms and tilted his hips raunchily, causing several pirates to burst into snickers. Ragetti blinked.

"W-Wot?" He could feel his ears turning red.

"Come on. Search me. Maybe you'll get lucky and find it, eh?" Raucous laughter followed this and Ragetti's face was burning. Giorgio completed the humiliation, snatching Ragetti's wrist and pressing his hand to his crotch. "Those feel like they could be the goods you're looking for, eh? Nice and round. Go on love, give 'em a squeeze."

If it had been Pintel down here, he would've given Giorgio more of a squeeze than he bargained for and perhaps a twist on the side. Ragetti just stammered helplessly and tried to pull back his hand.

He was not Pintel. Everyone was laughing. His one good eye stinging, he managed to wrench his hand free and stumbled back, away from Giorgio, who was still smiling and shouting something at him. Ragetti stormed below decks, breath hitching painfully.

He was not Pintel.


	5. Rain

The circulation in his wrists is cut off by cords. The man shivers against the wood as droplets of water land in his face, mingling with his perspiration. A thousand eyes watch him as charges are read out.

Accordingly, he has attacked a man. He has put unwelcome advances upon another, as testified the man himself and several others who saw them. Twice behind the barracks, once at port near the dock. He had been the paranoid one, but Johnny always laughed, kissed him, and told him to be still.

Keening softly under his breath, he closes his eyes against the rain, the assembled men, and the empty post beside him. Coin had been passed around, he's heard, to keep it empty.

Jonathan apparently had connections up high who didn't want for such a scandal. Changing the witnesses' stories was cheap in comparison. Changing Johnny's story had been without charge.

That hurts Ragetti more than the lash itself.


	6. Intimidation

The captain's words are like daggers of ice down Ragetti's still-healing back and he wishes he hadn't muttered anything. Even if he was only trying to be helpful. He dares to lift his eyes but not his head and sees the decorated officer is standing right in front of him.

"I . . . I said it w-was the Romans wh-what believed in Neptune, n-not the Greeks. They called 'im Poseidon."

"Are you still TALKING?" the man spat, contemptously.

Ragetti flinched. His knees were shaking. "Aye, Cap'n, you asked me what I said and I done told you."

"Know an awful lot for an illiterate bastard, don't we? Could barely sign our name in the register," he sneered.

"The Bosun signed for me, actually -"

"QUIET!"

Ragetti whimpered and ducked his head. Some of the men snorted to themselves but faintly, choosing to let Ragetti have all the fun.

Cold silence.

"You keep askin' me questions," Ragetti tried to defend, hopelessly.

The Captain's face was purple now, as if he would explode. His mouth opened, but before he could yell out the number of lashes, a new voice interrupted.

"Quit wastin' time on the addle-pated fool, Cap'n! Impress Service obviously dropped him on 'is head several times all the way to port!" the short man on Ragetti's left said.

There was generous laughter to that. The Captain, having no way to punish all his crew at once, raised his voice to yell everyone back into order.

Ragetti found he could breathe again, and looked at the man who'd spoken out of turn for him, smiling. The man, short and balding in an ill-fitted naval coat, sneered back but thumped him friendly enough on the arm as the bosun's whistle blew.

Having nobody else to follow when the line scattered, Ragetti ran after him.


	7. Patches

He's only lost his eye for the fifth time that evening, and it proves to be the final. The unfortunate rolling object curves with the next swell of the ship and lands neatly under the heel of a black boot. The owner of said boot is the recipient of a sheepish and apologetic smile, but to no avail. The eye is picked up, contemplated with a scowl of contempt.

He is in a bad temper already, what with having his authority challenged so soon in the voyage. Barbossa has no time for buffoons or their wayward eyes, so he sneers at Ragetti's pleading outstretched hand and turns to the starboard.

She hears the drawn in gasp as the man's intention is realized and the pathetic scramble of limbs to try and stop it. Ragetti gets up in time only to see the round prosthetic hurled far over the waves, disappearing in the black ocean and fog. Barbossa doesn't even spare him a smug glance. He walks away, calmly.

Elizabeth turns back to her own task of sail-mending, ignoring as best as she can the wet mist that coats her own hair and lashes. Pintel wrings out the mop and curses lowly before dropping it back into the bucket. He strides across the deck and she watches his boots stop before Ragetti's slightly shaking legs. She feels a pang of . . . something. But she reasons it's silly to fret so over a wooden eye. It had to have been uncomfortable anyway.

Pintel is speaking softly and starts away. Ragetti follows. She looks up as he passes and the taller man flinches, covering the right side of his face.

Elizabeth understands then.

The night comes. She knows where the two have made their bunk, in the farthest corner possible. Out of the way of everyone, as they do mostly everything else. She recognizes Ragetti in the light of the dim candle she holds and carefully slips an article into his curled fingers. He keeps sleeping, breathing almost drowned out by the snores above.

Elizabeth backs away carefully and turns to the stairs. A soft voice arrests her. It is muddled with sleep and confusion; she cannot help but smile unseen. "Poppet?"

She glances and Ragetti is unfurling the black stitched square, looking as though he's never seen a proper eye patch before. She hopes he isn't offended, but grins back when she sees his expression. Elizabeth nods at the unspoken thank you, and leaves as quietly as she came.


	8. Words

He could too read.

Pintel didn't think so, but Ragetti could. The first time he'd tried to explain the trick to it, Pintel just stared at told him he was a blighter. But then he'd ruffled Ragetti's hair, so he couldn't have been too upset.

All you needed to make words was letters. And Ragetti knew letters. Some of them.

It was like a code. He'd recognize the letters and try to guess the other letters and come up with the word. The more words he guessed, the clearer the phrase got in his head. Probably wasn't perfect, but it was close enough.

He'd heard the Bible was more about guidelines anyway


	9. Melody

"Na na na, it goes like --" He hummed a few bars and was interrupted immediately.

"That's not how it goes, you blighter!"

"Tis so, and don't be callin' me names jus' cause I'm more on-key than you are!"

"You wouldn't know on-key if it bit you in yer skinny pock-marked arse!"

"Oy, yer in a bad mood, Pinters. I'm not even in'trested in singin' no more." And now he was sulking. Pintel rolled his eyes.

He nudged Ragetti and his mate huffed, looking elsewhere. Apparently he'd have to do better than that.

"There ain't nothin' wrong with your bottom, lad. Now what was you sayin' about how it goes?"

Ragetti was stoically quiet for another moment. Until Pintel squeezed said bottom fondly. "C'mon let's hear it, then!"

Sigh. "We kidnap an' ravage, n' don't give a hoot!"

"Drink up me hearties, yo-ho!" Pintel crowed after him, just as tunelessly.

Up on deck, Gibbs gave Elizabeth a look of pure suffering. "Did you have to teach that blasted song to everyone, lass?" he complained.


	10. Blood

Pintel looks down, astonished that a knife had slipped so easily between his ribs, that he hadn't somehow gotten his gun out first. Rum must've made him slow. He hears Ragetti break out of the stupor first and fling himself at Pintel's attacker, howling in rage.

Stupid git. He'll get himself killed. Pintel tastes blood even as his hand fumbles, raises the pistol for a clear shot.

Ragetti's fists swing, landing a vicious blow and it's returned with interest. Giorgo follows up with a kick that sends the younger pirate on his back. Pintel fires.

There is no motion for a while, nothing but choking and gasping as Ragetti gets his feet back under him, sore but still ready to fight. Pintel puts his arm out and the lad freezes.

Giorgo stands, touching the hole in his chest with the same expression Pintel must have had. Doesn't so much as grimace. And Pintel knew the damn bullet went in, knew at that range it should have caused more than blood to come out. The knife in Pintel's side clatters to the deck.

No blood.

Nothing.

Something's gone screwy.


	11. Rainbow

Elizabeth looks out over the water as the storm falls behind. Beams hit the waves, refracted light and moisture creating bands of beautiful colors. A promise that all will be well. She is almost comforted. Then a greasy hand attaches itself to the ratline above her head. Ragetti squints with his one eye at the covenant and her hand relaxes over the hilt at her waist.

"They say 'at's a path 'twixt Mount Olympus an' the Earth," he says. "The Greeks do. Made by the Goddess Iris, what carries messages. Wonder what tidings she brings." Elizabeth's brow furrows lightly.

"I always understood the rainbow to be a sign between God and Mankind, promising no more floods."

"Aye. But Noah never made it to Greece, did 'e, lov?" Jack said, and Elizabeth jumps. She hadn't heard him approach at all.

Ragetti looks uneasy as well, turning his face down from his former Captain. Jack notices and he eases between them, one arm resting over Ragetti's thin shoulders, the other around Elizabeth, keeping them both in place. She makes a mild sound of displeasure in her throat but doesn't elbow him in the gut like she wants to.

"The clever things a god does," Jack muses aloud, staring at the rainbow. "First he floods the Earth to get rid of the ones he don't like, then he makes parley with the one man smart enough to listen and get on the boat. Gods don't do so well with nobody to follow 'em. Can't have a ship without a full crew, aye?"

"Aye," Ragetti answers, quietly. Miserably. "Can't."

"Can't have a crew without its captain?" Jack prompted, leaning his face toward Ragetti's and proving once again he had no regards for another's personal space. Ragetti flinched away ducking his head.

"No sir. Can't have that at all." He has a deathgrip on the ratline, as if expecting Jack's hand to shove him over the railing and . . .

But Jack's hand rubs his shoulder briefly then claps the man on the back, nearly sending his eye into the drink. And then his name's called and he's gone. So's the rainbow.

It wasn't a covenant, Elizabeth thinks to herself. She watches Ragetti's shaking hand take more tries than it normally would have to put his eye back in.

Jack had delivered his message.


	12. Cranky

"I don't have it."

The monkey looked at him, unbelieving, and perched on his shoulder. Ragetti tried to shift him off, but the damn thing had good balance. It merely bobbed, fur tickling his ear. He could smell it too.

A monkey's paw dipped down, patting his jacket for hidden pockets.

"I told you, it's gone."

Jack huffed and swung down to Ragetti's leg, plucking at his sash. Ragetti didn't even bother to swat at him this time, but instead snarled. "For the last bloody time, you 'airy little thief, I ain't got me eye! I looked all over the ship, I don't know where it is and I bloody hate you."

He sulked. Jack sat in his lap for a moment, staring at him. Then, chirruping softly, the monkey picked up Ragetti's hand and placed it on top of its own head. Ragetti stared at him, remaining eye already red-rimmed. After a moment he uncurled his fingers and softly pet Jack's fur.

Sometimes the little shit wasn't half-bad.


	13. Grey

Something wasn't right with the way the sky was tilted.

He tried to fix it, gagging at the coppery slither of blood at the back of his throat. Soft calloused hands lifted his head, then Poppet's face was blocking most of the sun, streaked with blood and dirt. Grimly, she tried to smile for him. The battle must be over then.

Ragetti started to sit up and couldn't even manage to scream from the attempt. "Pint?" he rasped, after pulling in a breath. The man was going to kill him for getting injured like this. Footsteps passed them hurriedly across the impossibly stained deck and he turned his head in Poppet's lap. He saw Pintel.

Her hand on his left cheek and he found himself staring up at Poppet again. She stroked his face. Her fingers trembled, snagging through the blood in his hair without meaning to. "He went quickly," she forced out.

Ragetti's mouth moved, but nothing articulate came out and the shock of his loss seemed to almost undo her. But Liz remained composed, leaning over him as if she could shield him.

"When d--?" he asked, on the tail of another forced breath. He didn't have enough air in his lungs to complete the question, but she understood.

She shook her head. "He didn't have time to see you."

A strange sense of relief flooded him and he nodded, grateful Pintel had been spared that. Spared the fear of his immortal soul as well, lucky bastard. Ragetti didn't have the breath to say a prayer, but he had one vaguely in mind. Didn't know all the words, but it was the thought that counted.

And then he realized he'd lost color in his vision. Funny. That went first? He reached out for a hold on something and felt Poppet's fingers entwine with his. Her voice spoke to him, filled with some hopeless urgency he hadn't the strength to answer.

He was afraid. He couldn't help it. Pintel was a lot further up ahead than he was.

Ragetti closed his eye against the impending blindness to look for him. He didn't open it again.


	14. Kick in the Head

Ten minutes or an eternity later, and he was still in this blasted fog. Ragetti sneezed for the fifth time - or the hundredth - and suddenly met the wall. First with the tip of his nose and then the rest of him rushed to introduce itself, causing him to yell in pain and quite foolishly kick it. The only lucky part of his body remaining he now hopped upon, clutching his sore foot and with the other hand, his throbbing face. "Bastard sonnuva --"

"-buggering bilgerat!" screamed an agitated voice, over the muffled sound of boot meeting skull.

Ragetti peered around the edge of the wall and gawped. He took in a breath and let it out in an exclamation of joy, running through the skirling fog and throwing his arms about the stout figure. Pintel flailed until he recognized his assailant and Ragetti yelped with laughter as he was lifted by the waist and hugged until he couldn't breathe. Just as quickly however he was deposited onto the ground and scowled at, but Ragetti was too happy to flinch.

"Just where the hell've you been?" Pintel snapped, hands on his hips. "You have any idea of the trouble I just went through tryin' to figure out where ye bloody WENT?"

Ragetti blinked and looked around, getting his bearings. Ahead of them was a gate. And a little before that was an old man lying face-down on the ground, long white beard strewn in all directions as though it were part of the fog. He was either dead or quite insensible.

"Pint, I just got here! Ain't my fault you got here faster!"

"Well," Pintel scowled, though not as ferociously as before, "Tha'll teach you to dawdle then won't it?" He turned his wrath back to the motionless gentleman sprawled out at their feet. "THIS lout was tryin' ta keep me from comin' inside outta the damned fog! Somethin' about not bein' on no damned list, yet not ten seconds before I got here he was lettin' some bloke in!"

Ragetti frowned. "Pint, he said we wasn't allowed in?" He peered up at the tall gate. "Supposin' this is the bad one? And . . . And maybe we gone in the wrong direction? It ain't got no pearls in it."

"Pearls don't matter none, Rags. Look beyond. You see any more fog?"

"No . . ."

"That's better than our lot out here and if it were the bad place, there'd be even more fog cause THAT place is all about what ye DON'T want. And right now, that's bloody FOG." Pintel's logic was sound and he crossed his arms, daring either Ragetti or the senseless saint to argue further.

Ragetti nodded in agreement. "And I don't think that gate's got anybody out in front turnin' people away or lettin' 'im in. But still, even if we's in the right place, they ain't lettin us in, Pint." He nibbled at his lip, worried. "This mean we gotta find the other gate?" he asked in a small voice, and looked longingly beyond the bars. They weren't made of pearls, silver, gold, not even brass. But when he reached out and flicked them with his fingers the metal chimed beautifully.

"I ain't goin' nowhere 'til I find out what bloody idiot didn't put us in that there book." Pintel was indignant. "I been baptized . . . I think! And I was religious!"

Ragetti gave him a look. Pintel caved after enduring less than a minute of it.

"Well I stopped buggin' you about it, didn't I?" he argued weakly, "That's patience and one of the virtues that is!"

The old man gave a faint gurgle but didn't lift his head. Ragetti frowned, prodding him with a shoe. "You gave 'im the right names n' such, right Pint? Not many people know me first name." He suppressed a giggle. "Or your middle one."

Pintel glared viciously. "Shut yer hole." He directed the evil look unto the barred gate, following it up to the top. "I already searched him for a key. T'weren't none."

Ragetti followed his gaze thoughtfully. "It don't look too high. And I think it's a mistake we ain't welcome. We weren't terribly bad."

"Nah, not terribly."

Saint Peter gave another pitiful moan.

"Barbossa was worse. I bet he gets in," the thinner man pouted.

"Aye, Sparrow too I bet." Ragetti gave his mate a bewildered look. Pintel snorted. "Can't imagine it either can you?"

"Why then there's no reason at all we can't go in. And if we can't, we deserve at least to know why," Rags said, sounding hurt.

"Right you is, Rags. And with present company currently out of order, there's nothin for it but to sally forth and find the answers ourselves. Now help me move this bloody book so we can stand on it."

Between the two of them, they got the immense volume off the inert Keeper of the Gate and fixed it in place beneath the barred entrance. It really wasn't that hard to climb after all.


	15. Advertisement

Damn. He's fallen behind again, and Ragetti can see Pintel's head up there, gleaming under the lamps like a beacon. Though it'd be murder if he ever said that or the like. Ragetti nearly catches up and Pintel stops for him, looking irritated. Then his view of the man is blocked by something very ample, surrounded by lace and smelling of enough lavender to suffocate a body. Ragetti reels back as if he's run into a wall.

"Oy," he said, dazed and the round things move as their owner giggles.

"We lost, love? Look up here," Marguerite tilts his face up with a feathery fan and it tickles. Ragetti stammers and tries to walk around her but . . . bugger, there's no getting around those things, is there? His face is caressed again.

"You got a bit of shine you won't miss, love?"

"Pintel!" he calls pathetically. But his mate's laughing, blast him, fit to be tied. The others look amused as well, even Barbossa.

"Ye be wantin' for a coin lad?" the Captain asks, eyes glinting.

"No!" Ragetti whines and Marguerite shushes him effectively, giving a free sample of her wares to tempt him to the offer. Which isn't bad, he supposes, though her tits are squishing the hell out of him. Something miraculously pries him away and he feels an arm wrapped around his own.

"He's with me," snaps a familiar voice and Ragetti feels giddy with relief. Poppet knows how to get past the be-feathered woman with the ominous orbs and he clings to her gratefully, shooting a poisonous look at Pintel as they pass. Its effect is dulled somewhat due to the rouge marks smeared all over Ragetti's face.

Pintel's still whooping it up, damn him, but he won't be later on.


	16. Trouble Lurking

Liz cursed, making another turn that gained her no use, save but to make her more lost. Sparrow's directions had been vague at best but they'd sounded short. Didn't seem like she could get turned around if she kept close to the water's edge, but the nearest privy had been further in than it seemed. The dock was completely different when she came out of the twisting corridors of rotted wood and hull and she'd wandered around it hopelessly before going back into the nearest archway of barnacle-encrusted wreckage. Eventually she heard people's voices and pressed on through the alley-way, coming out of the other side with a breath of relief.

She immediately regretted taking that breath as the smell of fish slapped her in the face. Liz reeled from the smell, making a face as she passed first the stall selling the fish and then a weapons smithy. The workers hammering away at the iron smelled as though they'd bought the fish - to bathe themselves with rather than eat.

An arm suddenly yanked her aside and her space was invaded by another man's face. "Hello, girlie," he smiled, not letting go. "Wandering about for profit?"

Liz made a valiant attempt not to gag at his breath. She'd preferred the fish. "I'm not a whore if that's what you're implying," she snarled, already searching him for weak spots. He was a veritable fortress of muscle which meant he'd go down hard if she could make it happen. The trouble was making it happen. She winced as the hold on her arm tightened.

"Well, tha's a shame for you and a farthing saved for me. I woulda paid you for this." He pulled her closer despite her resistance.

And suddenly there were barriers between them. Liz stumbled back, seeing the flash of a knife come out of the giant's belt and his face creased into a snarl.

"Kindly belay yer courtin', sir. The lass is belongin' with us," one of her saviors spat.

"Aye," the other said boldly, trying to make himself even taller than he already was. The knife appeared under his nose and he recoiled a little, but stood his ground.

"Ye speak foolishly for a feller what's only got one ter spare," the larger of the three growled. "So be fluttering off now before I carve a piece off each one o' yer!"

"Easy does it," Pintel said, raising his hands and smiling unpleasantly. "Normally we gents wouldn't interfere with an honest night's work."

"Then bugger the hell off!"

"Lissen, will ye? She's not what yer after if ye fancy keepin' wot ye got."

"Wot d'yer mean by that?" The knife lowered an inch.

Pintel's voice was sly. "Jack Sparrow's lass," he confided knowingly, in a whisper audible to anyone with ears.

"Several times this past month," Ragetti added. Elizabeth flared, indignant and repulsed at what they were both saying.

"What?!" She shrieked in outrage, and then gasped, rubbing her side. Ragetti's elbows were viciously bony.

The brute frowned, looking her over. He cursed under his breath. "He don't look her type," he said, looking uneasy for some strange reason.

Pintel shrugged, nonchalant. "Yer funeral. Lad lissen, I'm an old salt round these parts, an' I can tell ye right as rain . . ." He pointed over the man's shoulder and he glanced. Elizabeth did too. "That lass right over there is about as vicious as ye can hope for in bed, but lord knows she don't open her port for filthy rats like Sparrow. But a man like you? Why, with enough gold she'll be in yer lap 'afore you can say Hail Mary."

The man was considering it, smirking. "Aye. With enough gold ye say?" His eye glinted and with a sigh, Pintel dug into his pocket, and handed over two gold pieces. "Fair enough gents. Keep your bits and God save 'em the next time ye get in my way, friendly warning or no."

He stalked off with their gold, toward the woman in oriental garb, whose back was to them. Liz stared at her, recognizing her from the Council. She was many things, but Ching Shih was definitely no prostitute. Ragetti and Pintel took her by the arms, spun her about face and started frog-marching her onto the right path from which she'd strayed.

Liz heard noises from behind her that actually made her wince. There was no need for them to hurry. The brute wouldn't be getting up for quite a few hours. Neither would he be pissing in a straight line for a while, if the sound of crunching anatomy could attest.

She looked at the two beside her and smiled gratefully. Rags returned it easily, though Pintel scowled clearly working up a lecture in his head.

"I'll pay your gold back, that's a promise," she told them.

"Ain't bout the gold, ye daft wench. Ragetti wouldn't 'ave let me sleep if ye got kipped. Got a thing for ye, he has!" he sneered.

Ragetti sputtered in denial, blushing. "N'ah! Pinters, that ain't true! You were the one what rushed off t-!!"

"STOW IT!" Pintel roared, swinging at his head. Ragetti yelped rubbing at his ear which Pintel hadn't quite missed.

Liz laughed. She kissed Pintel on the cheek, which left him stammering protests the rest of the way to the dock.


	17. Annoyance

A/N: Speculation of what happens after this scene: http:// www. youtube. com /watch? vwb-GL1E5Mng (Remove all spaces! In this version of the clip I can actually see Ragetti. :P Hoo boy, Pintel's in trouble.)

-------------------------------------------

They walked toward him as one, the only unified thing they'd done all evening. Pintel raised his brow in alarm as he saw Barbossa's hand reach for his pistol. Jack saw the movement, and not to be outdone, drew his own and did it quicker.

The obvious question now would be who could shoot the fastest. And it was likely Pintel's last service would be the bickering of these two over whose bullets had struck first. A flash of green waistcoat later and Pintel found himself shielded behind an even greater fool than himself.

"Parley!" Ragetti said, hands spread out to hopefully belay the executioners.

He got a very exasperated look from Sparrow. Barbossa merely stared in contempt, not lowering his gun an inch. "Not going to work, I'm afraid," the man sneered. Ragetti didn't back down.

"You don't want to be killin' us yet," Rags said nervously. It only made the sneer on Barbossa's face uglier.

"And pray tell why don't I want to be killin' you two worthless scabs not fit to scrape the muck off the bottom of yer own boots?" Barbossa's tone was blistering. Ragetti cringed, but after a nervous swallow or two, he answered.

"Cause if ye nip us off now, you'll be havin' to fill our unpopular vacancies later. If by chance ye need 'em." He tried to smile winningly.

The rest of the crew half went about their business, listening very carefully. Barbossa and Jack were very aware of them listening very carefully. They stowed their weapons.

Barbossa smiled at Ragetti suddenly, chilling the man and Pintel behind him. "Waste not."

"Get back to work," Barbossa then spat and turned on his heel. Jack, mouth caught in a tug o'war between bemused smirk and irritated scowl, flailed off after him to resume their argument.


	18. Through the Fire

**Title:** 89. Through the Fire

**Rating:** PG-13, naval discipline (ow)

**Characters**: Pintel, Ragetti

**Setting:** Prior to CotBP. Ragetti and Pintel are still in the Royal Navy. Not for long after this.

_Not again. Not again, not again, not again. _

Ragetti was trying to breathe slowly like Pintel had told him to, forehead pressed against the wood of the mast. He was stripped to his waist, his wrists secured above him. He could do nothing but stand miserable and cold and humiliated before his peers. Bloody familiar, this.

On the other side of the mast, Pintel jerked against is own chains, testing them. Ragetti couldn't see, but he knew Pintel would be sneering, just as miserable as he. Difference was that Pintel hid it so much better than him.

The chaplain was reading the scripture. Fortitude, temperance, something about God's mercy and forgiveness. Ragetti almost started to relax. Mercy was a good thing. Forgiveness was better.

But God wasn't the one raising the cat, was he then?

Ragetti heard Pintel move under its first blow. Another, and another fell. Ragetti listened to him ride it out, listened to every rattle of the chains and pained hiss that escaped his mate's lungs.

"M'sorry," Rags moaned, wincing at every one that fell on Pint. "M'sorry. Sorry." Not sorry for them stealing. Sorry for having to.

It was worse than being flogged himself. Cause it was his fault. If not for him, Pint would've been content to just eat what little they handed out. He would've been fine. Not --

Pintel cried out, a helpless wrenching yowl of anger and pain. Ragetti was reminded of a dog the men in his village had cornered and put to death - for killing too many chickens. They'd stoned it while it had tried to find a means to escape their justice.

As a boy Ragetti had stood on the edge, hoping the dog would get through the group, hoping the dog would make it to him and then they could both run very far away. But it had died, making those horrible little noises. The noises Pintel was making now and half-choking himself in the attempt not to.

Ragetti twisted his fingers, trying to reach Pintel's hand. Some kind of touch to comfort him, _anything_. It was best that he failed in this for Pintel had significantly more pride than a mongrel dog.

"Pint?! Pintel!" Ragetti called, desperate. Men had died from floggings before, what if --? Ragetti stretched his fingers out again - if only he could _see_ him. The final lash fell, cutting Pintel's moan in half. It trailed off into something low and guttural and weak.

The quartermaster's feet were moving. Ice gripped Ragetti's stomach as he heard the man stop and he tried to look over his shoulder. He immediately wished he hadn't. Fire came down before he had the time to clench his teeth against it. His own shout of pain revived Pintel something fierce.

Among the sensation of his skin splitting open under the cruel tails, Ragetti felt the mast shudder anew with Pintel's own struggling. The older man spat insults and hollered worse, whatever he could think of to bring the lash back down upon himself and away from Ragetti. Of course the quartermaster remained unaffected in his duties.

Once it was over, when Ragetti was slumped against the mast, hitching and trying to find a way to breathe that did not open the many bleeding mouths sliced into his back, the chaplain read another passage on mercy from his book.

_Bollocks_, Ragetti remembered thinking, through a haze. _All we took was food what was filthy an' full of vermin. They woulda thrown it out. Bollocks to mercy. Bible full 'o lies._

Immediately he was guilty for it. Because God wasn't the one raising the cat, and He wasn't the one throwing stones at a starving mongrel either.

Sooner than he could want for it, Pintel's shoulder was set against his, and his freed wrists dropped from their bonds. Ragetti put one foot in front of the other unsteadily. Pintel did not let him fall.


	19. Food

**Title:** 87. Food

**Rating:** PG-13, mentions of violence and for language

**Characters:** Pintel, Ragetti

**Setting:** Pre-CotBP. Follow-up to 'Through the Fire'.

----------------------

Hurt like hell, it did. Bloody bastards.

Pintel was upright at least, breaking open one of their last biscuits and picking out the crawling insects he could see. The officers had done a search of their bunks but Pintel was clever and he'd hid the rest of the stash well. They could just assume he and Ragetti had eaten it all.

He didn't mind bugs really. They couldn't compare as far as the taste of this food. But still living? No. He and Rags weren't about to debase themselves any further.

And speak of the devil. Ragetti moved on the bed, slowly uncurling. Pintel left off the tack and watched him.

"Bout time ye woke up."

"Aye . . ." Ragetti answered. He shifted forward, still flat on his side. Pintel let him, fingers breaking the half of tack into fourths. Ragetti stopped when his shoulder was against Pintel's knee and he looked up at the other man. Pintel sighed. Those damn eyes of his would be the death of him one day, he was sure. If only Ragetti would beg for food instead of just . . .

Pint gave in, brushing his knuckles over Ragetti's face and tangling his fingers in the younger man's hair. Rags started to put his head down on Pintel's leg, but was not permitted before a piece of tack touched his bottom lip. "Eat, lad."

"Nn. Not hungry, Pint."

"Yer eatin' it or I'm shovin' it down yer gullet. Look at ye. Went from starvin' on the street to working like dogs for the damn Navy and we're _still_ starvin'. T'ain't the life for us."

Ragetti's response was noncommittal and Pintel suspected that if he could have, the lad would've shrugged. He gripped Ragetti's chin and made the boy look up at him.

"No, Rags. It ain't right. We didn't deserve to be punished for takin' food they wouldn't give to pigs."

Ragetti stared up at him blankly. He'd been doing that more and more as of late. Pintel wondered if it was just stress or if something was truly wrong with him. He didn't care for Rags shutting it all out, not when it included him. Pintel gave him a shake by the hold on his face and heard Ragetti gasp as the motion turned his back to fire again. Ragetti's hand went to Pintel's wrist, imploring him to let go. Pintel did not, pressing the matter.

"What say ye? Happy with this lot? Want to stay, even if I should go?"

Pintel was pleased with Ragetti shaking his head frantically, but it was followed by Ragetti crawling forward onto his lap in a panic. Pintel held him still, trying to quiet the younger man's terrified protests.

"Stow it. It didn't mean nothin'. I was just sayin', Rags, tha's all. Eat."

He pressed the tack against Ragetti's lips. Pintel felt him take it out of his hand. Not because he was hungry, because Pintel had told him to. Pintel could've offered one of those bloody weevils and he suspected Rags would've taken it.

They'd made a mess out of his lad. And Rags had already been a mess to start with. That wasn't something Pintel was ready to forgive. But give it time and he suspected that once away from all this Navy bollocks, maybe Rags would stop having to look over his shoulder and maybe once in a while he'd laugh. And maybe he'd eat a proper meal without being threatened first.

When the biscuit was gone, he brushed his thumb across Ragetti's lips and resigned himself to having his legs fall asleep again.

He pretended not to hear the words that escaped the taller man's lips as Ragetti laid his head on Pintel's chest. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a half-smile as he traced the lad's ear with a finger.

"We're gonna be alright, Rags. Jus' ye wait. Our blood won't have dried up there on the deck 'afore we're out."

Sounds filtered through from above, but nothing indicated anybody coming down to the hold. For now they'd both take what they could get.


	20. Puzzle

-1**Title: **98. Puzzle

**Rating: **PG (language?)

**Setting: **'Cut Scene' in AWE

Blasted be damned.

Pintel was getting a headache from trying to figure this out and he was sure the others were all laughing at him. They were talking amongst themselves in their own strange language and some were staring at him.

Made it bloody hard to concentrate.

"S'easy, Pint. Jus like this."

Pintel glared at the thin fingers that moved the chopsticks with ease, picked up the rice and put it to their owner's mouth. Ragetti made a sound of appreciation and at that, almost wound up with Pintel's bowl of rice dumped over his head.

Almost. Pintel was still hungry, after all.


	21. 67 Percent

"Ye'll not be gettin up from that table until I tells you to."

The command is sharp and the boy heeds it, bottom meeting the seat of his chair again with a dull thud. The work before him is taxing and hard and utterly boring. It's driving him out of his skull.

Three of the tasks are done, whether correctly or not, and there are several more left to go. He works through them, scratching his head and wishing he could slip the parchment and all under the table and his Da will trust him on good faith that the blasted thing is done.

But his Da is firm. His Da is a merchant and he wants his son to follow in his footsteps and be just as successful as he if not more. No merchant what's successful cannot do basic sums.

He works sluggishly through the paper, candle burning the figures into his vision until he can close his eyes and see them. It's the last problem now and he's stuck. Bloody hell.

The lad mutters so under his breath. Three hundred pounds of sugarcane come into the harbor safely, but two hundred and one pounds of it fall off the wagon going to the market. What's the percentage total cargo lost? How the bloody hell do you figure that out? Why do you bloody care about percentage? You've lost two hundred and one pounds. Problem solved, aye?

Samuel Pintel thunks his head against the desk, grumbling. He hates sums. After all, he's probably going to be here all bloody night because of them.


	22. Two Roads

She was fading even as he watched; a frail husk left in the shadows of the quarterdeck to gaze emptily outwards at the ocean. Not one night ago her own father had sailed beside their ship in his own ferry, Governor Wots-is-face, dead as a doornail and at peace with himself. Now the blasted wench looked like she was tryin' to will _herself_ to an early grave.

Turner had sat by her all day, entreating her to talk about it. To look at him even. He'd retired below, deciding to give her the space she seemed to desire. That or he was made cold at last by her silence. She hadn't appeared to notice.

Pintel walked near, bottle of rum in hand. Not much of anything was left but he figured she could use it. She'd hardly drunk anything else. He put it down by her feet and leaned against the railing. For a moment or two, he was quiet, looking across the deck, at the horizon. She stared on ahead.

"My father was a retired soldier," he started lowly. "Went into the spice-merchant business. Somewhere off'a Barbary."

Liz raised her head and glanced at him. Pintel couldn't tell in this half-light of dusk whether it was a look of interest or a look telling him to fall overboard. He went on anyway.

"He was always after me to study the trade. T' make somethin of meself. I hated it. Didn't want to learn the math or politics of it. I wanted t' make my own waves."

She swallowed, turning away from him. Although she didn't tell him to go away. Pintel was not by any stretch one of her favorite crewmates, but she found the rough gravel of his voice oddly comforting. Her eyes fell on the bottle for a brief tempted moment.

"I run off to seek other fortune. Then I got imprisoned and taken by the Navy. Didn't like it, and deserted with Rags a year into it. Eventually we came back to the port where I grew up after so many years. Figured it was a good base to lie low and join a crew."

"And you found your father dead?" Liz finished, already guessing where he was going. She was quick on the mark. Quelled a storyteller's thunder a bit, but he couldn't blame her.

Pintel nodded. He heard the bottle of rum as it was lifted and the stopper removed. Poppet drank from it and handed it back stiffly. He took a quick drink himself, knowing she was waiting for him to finish the story. She'd guessed the ending, but not with the intent to stop him from telling it.

"He died a couple years after I done run off. His business went to pot on account of his drinking himself sour. Nobody wanted to be around 'im. He died alone and in debt and disgrace. Because he couldn't let go of a son what didn't _think_ about how good he had it."

"That's the lesson I've learned," Elizabeth said, swallowing. Her face was contorted, trying to keep pain in. "If I had just . . . been content . . ."

"Then ye wouldn't have ended up with Turner," Pintel interrupted, lookin' sharply at her. She looked at him, eyes wide with pain. "Stop blamin' yerself for fate, Poppet. Least you had a good reason for leavin' your feathered nest. I didn't have any good reason at all."

"You met Ragetti," she said, taking another swig of rum.

Pintel hadn't expected that and sputtered for a moment. "Well," he said, momentarily at a loss. "Aye, he's a good friend and all . . ." She shrugged nonchalantly. Pintel was all to happy to abort the subject.

"Right. My point is," he said, struggling to come back to it. "Ye had two ways to go. And ye took the only one what seemed best at the time. If you had stayed . . . the way things are ye would've lost both of 'em."

Liz had squeezed her eyes shut, slowly lowering her face over her knees until Pintel couldn't see her eyes. "I think I've might've lost both anyway," she choked out after a space.

Pintel snorted loudly, nearly throwing his hands up. "Cause you two are havin' a quarrel? Bollicks! That kind'a shit happens with everyone. And when it does, the best you can do is keep the other alive, if just so you can wring his neck _ye'self _should it come down to that!" His brusque tone actually brought a brief smile to Elizabeth's lips. Pintel knew what he was talking about.

"You're right. If I hadn't left Port Royal, Will would've come back to do the same for me. And he would've been killed," she murmured.

"Aye," Pintel said, relieved. This was getting tangled but at least she hadn't started crying. He was better suited now to Liz, not _Miss Swann_. Nevertheless he gentled his voice some. "That don't make the guilt go away anytime soon, I know. But if there's one person what ought to pay for what happened to your father . . . it ain't you, Poppet."

Elizabeth swallowed hard, staring at the wood beneath her feet before standing up. Pintel inclined his head, and she nodded briskly back at him. Before she turned to walk toward the hold, he noticed something and grinned to himself. Some of that spitfire had found its way back.


	23. Seeing Red

Someone was going to die. He'd sized up his opponent and knew quite simply that someone, either himself or the man in front of him, was going to die. Pintel sneered.

_Fragments of white in his eye socket, the lad's fingers clawing at the empty hole in his face as he panicked, unable to dislodge the debris -_

He waited. He stared ahead of him at Masod's features, twisting his own up into a sneer as he got a good grip on his knife. The Bo'sun was staring at him more than the other. Pintel didn't really pay him much attention.

_Talking steadily to him, holding his face still until he could clear the yellow slime away from the lad's face. Ragetti was hiccoughing, shaking, a pathetic figure hiding under the hold stairs -_

Masod was smirking as they circled, signal given at last by Bo'sun. First blood was the winner of this sorry debacle but with this crew, Pintel figured it wasn't going to stop there if he was the loser.

_Pintel had sent him up for a bucket of sea-water to finish mopping the floors down there, and Ragetti had come back wearing most of the contents of what they had just mopped up. He was cold and wet and dripping bilge all over the floor, but what Pintel cared about was his eye. Why had the blighters done that to his eye?_

Pintel had the disadvantage of being shorter, but he knew how to move when it counted. And Masod hadn't counted on that.

_The bits of eggshell had taken more time to get out than it had for Masod and his pals to shove the damn thing in. Pintel could see in his mind how it had gone, them holding Rags on his back - that act enough to send the boy into a fit - and the egg going in until it broke, bursting all over Ragetti's face just like his real eye had done - just like Pintel had SEEN his eye do when -_

Masod on the deck, screaming as the dagger slid down his arm, Pintel's weight pinning him. He writhes and Pintel can still see nothing but blood and hear nothing but Ragetti's sobs as he tried to calm the lad, tried to tell him that -

_No, it hasn't all happened over again, it was just a damn egg you twit. Just a blasted cackle fruit - your eye's already gone, remember lad? It's already happened, you're all right now, you're fine._

When Pintel finally sees Masod's face again, when the hands finally succeed in pulling him away, when Bo'sun's shout that the match is won reaches his understanding . . .

He knows Masod won't be going near his lad again anytime soon.


	24. What To Do with a 50ft Goddess

Kneeling. Aye, that seemed a wise choice considering the fine mess they were in.

They were all going to die. All of them.

Pintel cursed under his breath, staring fixedly at the dark wood of the deck. It was creaking in a threatening manner under all the weight. He couldn't stop thinking it. They were all dead. If _She_ didn't sink them, the Armada and the Dutchman would.

Bloody hell. He could've thought of better ways to end than this.

A nudge in the ribs distracted the paranoid rat running circles in his mind. Pintel glared over at Ragetti. "Wot?" he hissed, keeping his voice under Barbossa's.

"W-We's . . . We's goin' t' die anyhows . . . s-so . . ."

Ragetti made a motion with his head. Pintel frowned, not following it and not in the mood to play guessing games.

"The hell you on about?"

Ragetti tilted his head more meaningfully, rolling his one eye for emphasis. Pintel's scowl only deepened until it hit him. He grinned slowly.

What the hell. They had nothing else to lose at this point.

Somehow suppressing hysterics, Ragetti and Pintel tilted their heads at _just_ the right angle and looked up.


	25. Out Cold

_Drifting. That was all it was. He was a little cotton ball just drifting across the gray . . . whatever the hell the gray stuff was. Hurt to think. _

_Matter of fact, no. Not a cotton ball. Sounded like somethin' a poofter would think. __He was . . . a whatever. Yeh. _

_And there were more things cutting through the other big gray whatever, and some colors burst. Which was interestin'. The things sounded . . . like voices. He wondered what voices would be doin' here. Didn't they 'ave bodies?_

_His head bloody _hurt. _Wot in the seven 'ells -?_

"I fink 'e's comin' 'round!"

_No shit, really? Ya half-brained -_

"Thank th' Lord. When 'e went down, I thought f' sure . . ."

"Don't you get yourself all worked up again," another voice warned. It was gravelly and sharp.

"M'not, honest, I jus' . . . 'e didn't look like 'e was breathin' an'-"

"Aye, drink yer grog and sit _still_. Pintel will be fine, I know him."

_The voices were coming from up above. Pintel didn't like that. It meant he was lying down. And he didn't want to be lying down unless he'd laid himself down himself. Right. So he'd be getting up now . . . _

_. . . or not. _

"'E fell hard. Ye didn't see 'ow hard -"

"Ragetti, drink your grog. He's fine! Just count yourself lucky he didn't fall through any rotten boards."

_He was opening his eyes and getting up now . . . _

"Bloody _stupid_ Jack."

"Aye. We oughta do somethin' about that damn monkey. This is the third time something like this has happened."

"M-Maybe we could train 'im to use the latrines."

_Now . . . FUCK._

"I mean 'e's gettin on in years and 'e ain't gonna always be able to bounce back." A wet swallow followed this tearful statement. "I . . . I dun' know what I'd do . . ."

_Oh. No. He. DIDN'T. _

Pintel saw something not gray. It was green, red, dirty, tawny-haired, and dripping tears off the end of a long nose. Pintel reached up a hand and seized the nose, yanking Ragetti down to the level of his chest.

"GETTIN' ON IN YEARS?! _GETTIN' ON IN YEARS?!?!_"

"Naw, naw, naw, Pinters!" Ragetti wailed nasally, grog spilling everywhere as he tried to free himself. "I only meant--"

"YOU SAYIN' I'm OLD?!" Pintel hollered. He sat up, pain hammering away at his skull to tell him it was a bad idea. It only made him all the more cross. He released Ragetti's nose, much to the younger man's relief, only to grab an ear instead. Ragetti wailed pitifully in protest.

"Jus' who was it put it into yer addle-pated head I'm 'gettin' OLD!? I'll teach you different 'afore the night is out, you believe me!" Pintel roared. Ragetti was whimpering frantically.

"Well I see you're both doing fine now," Marty said, getting off his stool and walking toward the stair.

"Don't leave me with him!" Rags begged wildly.

"Why? Don't ye think I'm too OLD an' FEEBLE to knock any sense in yer fool head?"

"OWWWW! OW-OW-OW! I-I never said feeble!"

Marty managed to keep a straight face all the way to the other end of the hold where a rather bemused Mr. Cotton was watching the squabble from his bunk.

"Married," Marty confirmed with a snort. "_Definitely_ married."


End file.
